Moments of Reprieve
by Kay Taylor
Summary: Charlie finds himself in a very compromising position at Malfoy Manor. Threats, Lucius Malfoy, and a sleeping dragon.


Charlie lights a match, holding it high above his head. The bars on the cage are easily wide enough for him to slip through, but something about the way they catch the light - blue-silver-grey, dull as steel under the moonless sky - makes him curse under his breath, not daring to take an other step closer. It's all wrong and out of place, and he can feel the ground thrumming under his feet, the low steady murmur of dragon-breath.  
  
The match burns down to his fingertips, and he jumps.   
  
Fucking -   
  
The sudden pain makes his heart pound, and then it's dark again.  
Charlie drops to his knees, unwilling to go anywhere near the enchantments on the cage - Charms were never his strong point, but if he's right, the flare could take out Malfoy Manor and a large piece of Hertfordshire with it. He runs his hands across the ground, feeling the cool hard stone under his fingers, the soft rustling of dry leaves. And, coating his palms with a silvery sheen - ash.   
  
Charlie bites his lip. Ash. A cage, and a sleeping dragon, and he's trespassing on the Malfoy Estate at three o'clock in the morning.  
The wind picks up, and he shivers. He's not so sure why he's come, any more.  
  
Then -  
  
Then he feels the wand pressed into the back of his neck.  
  
Mr Weasley. What an unexpected pleasure.  
  
Charlie tries to force himself to relax, but his fingers have gone numb and his mouth is completely dry. He suddenly realises how very cold and dark it is, and if the things he's heard about Lucius Malfoy are true, he could probably kill him in a heartbeat. Maybe sooner.  
  
He forces himself to stay _still_. You wouldn't dare.  
  
Lucius's voice is cool. Wouldn't I?  
  
Not this close to a sleeping dragon, no. Charlie realises he's been holding his breath. A sleeping dragon _and_ those wards.  
  
Lucius sounds faintly amused. Maybe not.  
  
The pressure of the wand's tip lessens a little, enough for Charlie to almost believe he can feel the blood rushing back through his veins. He doesn't risk reaching for his own wand, though, and stands up slowly, feeling the polished wood slipping down slightly to rest between his shoulderblades, a single small nub of pressure through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. He shivers again, and when he finally takes a breath, it's cloudy and white in the night air. Like dragon-breath.  
  
What are you going to do, then?  
  
He means it to sound defiant, but the second his voice dies away, he realises he only sounds scared. He wonders how many seconds of advantage he'd have if he ran, but the only way to run is forwards, into the cage. And Lucius runs the Ministry, anyway.  
  
Lucius sounds faintly irritated.   
  
The air shifts subtly, and Charlie can tell he's stepping closer by the way the wand tip trails further downwards still, coming to a rest at the top of his spine. Lucius's footfalls are silent on the leafy ground. When he speaks, Charlie realises suddenly that his mouth must be inches away from Charlie's neck; his breath is warm - so strange, when the air is so cold - and he whispers, surprisingly intimate: What do you _think_ I do with my trespassers, Mr Weasley?  
  
Charlie shrugs. My supervisor knows I'm here. The Council are concerned -  
  
Lucius laughs in Charlie's ear. And you expect me to believe that?  
Charlie swallows, realising how very much _alone_ he is. And that the wand is starting to get warm against his back, and there would be nothing to stop Lucius whispering a few words against his bare neck, and making him crumple into nothingness. Unconsciously, he presses his shoulders backwards, and Lucius's fingers brush against the curve of his neck.  
  
He flinches, but doesn't dare pull away. Let me go, he says, aware of how cool Lucius's fingertips are, how strangely warm his breath. Such a contradiction. Let me _go_.  
  
The vehemence in his voice startles him, and he can tell it takes Lucius aback, as well. A momentary stillness, then Lucius speaks: But surely, Mr Weasley, you wouldn't leave without seeing the dragon?  
  
The wards up on the bars shimmer as Lucius runs a hand over them, flashing iridescent in the faint light - blue-silver-grey. His hands are slender, and Charlie squints in the darkness for a second, sure that he sees claws where nails should be - smooth and white. But the moment passes, and the air changes around them.  
  
And all the while, the wand at his back.  
  
Charlie takes a few steps forwards, and hesitates before stepping between the bars. But Lucius digs the wand into the base of his spine and _twists_, and it's like a bolt of heat passing through him. He steps forwards, feeling the warm tendrils of magic floating through his blood, making his fingers itch and his eyes water slightly, stinging in the cold air. He can feel Lucius coming right up behind him, and doesn't move as he grips Charlie's shoulders, pushing him slowly forwards, guiding his way through the darkened enclosure.  
  
The heels of Charlie's boots are making a scraping, almost gritty sound against the earth below, and he recognises it - ashes. He can feel the breathing getting louder, a faint impression of the air _vibrating_, and he shivers under Lucius's hands; this must be a large dragon, kept by force - why else the ashes? - and he'd much rather be approaching it himself, field knife in hand and by stealth, than with Lucius Malfoy pushing him forwards on the tip of a wand.  
  
They stop short, and Charlie's eyes follow the shape up, up and up, until the blackness of the creature's skin shades against the deeper blue of the night sky. Ukranian, he guesses, and already his mind is calculating the wingspan, the distance at which it can shoot fire, the tail sweep if angered. The ashes crunch under his feet, smelling of forgotten smoke, and Lucius steps closer, until Charlie can feel his breath - warm and almost rapid compared to the dragon's slow, steady doze. This is a full-grown male, Charlie realises, and it would have taken more than ten wizards to subdue. And more than ten Charms experts to spell the cage. He takes a step backwards, and Lucius's arms slide around his waist.  
  
Charlie freezes. From this angle, he can see what he didn't notice on entering the cage - the long, twisted chains snaking off into the darkness on either side. Huge chains, bent out of shape.  
  
He tried to get out. It isn't a question.  
  
Only once. I don't think he'll try again.  
  
Charlie clenches his teeth. It's _cruel_. He needs to stretch his wings -  
  
Lucius's voice is mild. Those wings cost me the gardener and an over-curious kitchen boy.   
  
Charlie's voice is icy. Piss him off enough, and those wings might well cost you the whole bloody _Manor_.  
  
Lucius sounds amused. Is that a _threat_?  
  
You'd better hope it isn't - bloody hell, have you _seen_ what one of these things can do?  
  
Lucius leans close, until his mouth is almost touching Charlie's ear. No. And I have no desire to. His face is level with Charlie's, and out of the corner of his eye, Charlie gets an impression of sweeping blond hair, a pale face. Hence the chains.  
  
And then he lets Charlie turn around, but pushes him backwards. Charlie finds himself leaning against a sleeping dragon, the scales warm and slippery against his skin, the serrated edges digging painfully into his shoulderblades. Lucius keeps the wand pressed against Charlie's spine, and the curve of his arm makes the position intimate, and Charlie's eyes widen slightly as he realises.   
  
He looks down at the floor. Now, are you going to let me go?  
  
Lucius sighs. I thought we'd been through this already, Mr Weasley. He emphasises this with a slight flick of his wand, pushing it down the curve of Charlie's spine, leaving a trail of heat. You are, after all, a trespasser.  
  
Charlie bites his lip, feeling the magic running through his bones, almost painful, and so suddenly _warm_ that he presses himself back against the wand before he realises what he's doing. His breath is making icy clouds in the air before him, partially obscuring Lucius's face, those mocking eyes.  
  
Eyes which are fixed on him. And Charlie realises with a creeping sense of horror and _shame_ that he's aroused by this.  
  
On _my_ land, Lucius says quietly. And I take my property very seriously. He brings his hand up, as if to touch Charlie's face, and then it drops, and Charlie thinks that his heart must have stopped beating, because he can't hear it hammering any more. Lucius rests his hand on Charlie's leg, and touches him with the wand again, and this time Charlie's eyes flutter closed.  
  
The warmth spreads through him, and for a moment he's not in the cage in the Malfoy estate, he's not with Lucius Malfoy, he's not even himself. But somewhere through it all he feels the dragonscales biting into his back, drawing blood just beneath the first bump of his spine, and he's so hot and hard that it doesn't seem to matter any more.  
  
Let me go, he says, and he doesn't really recognise his own voice.  
  
I'm not sure, Lucius says lazily, and he steps forwards, sending another burst of heat through Charlie's freezing body until they're pressed together. Charlie swallows.  
  
Maybe the Council don't know I'm here, but the others at Tregoyd do, he says, trying to keep his tone light, trying to ignore Lucius's weight resting against his cock, and how much - oh, how much - he wants to rub against him, to release some of the terrible _painful_ tension of this night and this cage. They sent me, actually. I told them I'd be straight back -   
  
For a second, Lucius doesn't answer, and Charlie allows himself to think that this is it, that he can go - but then Lucius smiles slowly, and allows the tips of his nails to graze Charlie's thigh through the material. You're enjoying this, aren't you?  
  
Charlie doesn't trust himself to answer, and bites his lip instead, trying to distract himself from the warm, aching throb of his cock, pressed hard against Lucius's hip. Lucius smiles at his discomfort, and shifts his weight slightly - forcing Charlie to lean against him, pressing them together with the painful heat of the wand against Charlie's back. Lucius's eyes travel down Charlie's body, and Charlie takes advantage of the brief respite to squeeze his eyes shut, tight enough to see brilliant spheres of blue exploding in the corners of his vision.  
  
So, what is it? Lucius murmurs, his eyes lingering on the worn, creased leather around Charlie's crotch. Is it the dragon? He runs his nails up Charlie's thighs, marking him through the fabric. His breath is warm on Charlie's face. Is it... me?  
  
Charlie shakes his head violently, still unable to answer. He can feel the blood rushing to his face, and he's almost thankful for the dark - enough to hide how flushed he is, when Lucius is so calm and so _white_, but not enough to hide how he's straining at his trousers, the harsh heavy pulse of his arousal against the leather.   
  
Is it the fact that I've had Percy? Lucius continues quietly, letting out a faint sigh of satisfaction at the way Charlie tenses against him. Earlier this night, as it happens. I pressed his lovely face down into my sheets and took him so hard he _screamed_. Lucius's voice drops to a low whisper. I've made him bleed for me. I've made him suck me, and _beg_ for me to fuck him. His hand slides flat up Charlie's inner thighs, pushing his legs apart. He's probably wondering where I am, in fact.   
  
He runs his nails over the warm leather, tracing the outline of Charlie's erection. I left him in my bed, when I came out to - ah - deal with you.  
  
Suddenly, he leans forward and nips at Charlie's neck, hard enough to leave a mark. The wand pressed at Charlie's back never wavers.  
Charlie closes his eyes, trying desperately not to think about how much he wants Lucius to _touch_ him, cool hands on hot flesh. You wouldn't -   
  
Lucius laughs, softly. Of course I would. And so would Percy.  
And then he starts to stroke, and it's so unexpected that Charlie gasps and almost falls against him. He _loves_ it. And I'm teaching him everything I know.  
  
Charlie tries to pull away, but the wand digs into the base of his spine, the tip painfully hot. Let me _go_, he says through clenched teeth, trying to ignore the way that Lucius's fingers are curled around him, trying not to break eye contact even though Lucius is rubbing the leather against his cock, trying to block out how good it feels. Lucius slips his hand inside the trousers, and at the first cool touch Charlie bites his lip hard enough to taste blood.   
  
Let me go, he says faintly, and Lucius leans into him, bending his head to nibble at Charlie's bare throat. He closes his eyes, though he knows he shouldn't want to, and fights back a gasp as Lucius swipes his thumb across the head, pressing down firmly, coating him with a sheen of precome. The trousers are too tight, too restricting, and he squeezes his eyes shut, unable to stop his hips bucking up to meet Lucius's strokes. It's cold, so cold, and he tells himself that's why he's shuddering, feeling Lucius's teeth worrying at his neck in little sparks and paroxysms of pain.  
  
Let me go -  
  
You know you could leave.  
  
The wand, against his back.  
  
... no I couldn't.  
  
Of course you couldn't.  
  
That wasn't what I -   
  
A gasp, in the dark, and Charlie's hands scrabble to find purchase on Lucius's hips, trying to hold himself up. Lucius laughs, his mouth close to Charlie's ear, and whispers: Just like your brother.  
  
Charlie can't move, from the almost unbearable heat of the wand digging into his spine or the firm, slow strokes of Lucius's hand around his cock, a smooth languid motion that makes his entire world contract to just _this_. He tries not to think of Percy, waiting for Lucius to come back to bed, his hair smelling of the autumn night. From evenings at the Burrow he knows what his brother would look like - covers bunched up into a tight little ball around him, red hair against creamy white shoulders and the slight dusting of freckles on his back.   
  
Lucius runs the tip of his tongue, cat-like, around Charlie's ear. Isn't it a shame I had him first?  
  
And something sparks, and Charlie snarls - I told you to let me _go_ - and shoves Lucius away from him as hard as he can, his breathing shallow. But he grabs at Charlie, and Charlie's hands come up into his hair, yanking Lucius's head back to expose the long white curve of his neck, and then they hit the ground with a muffled thud.   
  
The leaves settle, and Charlie's heartbeat slows. Lucius is lying on top of him, their legs and arms and hands twisted together and intertwined, and there's a terrible stillness to the moment, Lucius's face close enough for them to be eye-to-eye, even without the moon.  
  
For a second, Charlie thinks that Lucius is going to kiss him. Instead, he ducks his head and bites at Charlie's lower lip, _hard_, enough to draw blood. Charlie yanks on Lucius's hair, which catches him off-balance, and Charlie struggles to get up. Lucius still has his wand, which makes it harder, and he presses Charlie's face sideways into the dirt. The wand flickers up and around to rest against the side of Charlie's neck, and it's so blisteringly hot that all Charlie can think for one confused moment is - _dragon_ - before realising that their cocks are pressed together, rubbing hard against each other's thighs and hips.  
  
Charlie gasps, and the ashes swirl upwards from his breath, disturbing the leaves with a rustle like dry parchment, and Lucius yanks the trousers down, almost snarling in frustration as the buttons refuse to give way. He settles for mid-thigh, effectively binding Charlie's legs, and wraps his pale fingers around the redhead's erection, slicking precome down the shaft.  
  
Charlie tries to close his eyes, but Lucius sinks his teeth into his chest, just below the neckline of his shirt. Look at me, he hisses. I will _not_ be denied this. And Charlie can feel that Lucius is rubbing up against him like a cat, his skin warm against Charlie's bare thighs, and his breathing has the heavy rhythm of someone holding _back_.  
  
He risks moving his arm, freeing it from the weight of Lucius's chest, and runs it downwards, passing over silk and the smooth supple leather of Lucius's belt, the close-fitting suede trousers. He's straining at his trousers, and Charlie hears a hiss of breath escape Lucius's clenched teeth as Charlie rubs hard against the warm outline of Lucius's cock. Hair falls into Charlie's face, and Lucius swirls his thumb over the head of his cock, and there's nothing but the warm heaviness of their breathing, the slow deep rhythm of dragon-breath, and the movement of Lucius's hips against Charlie.  
  
It should be cold, the night air, but Charlie can almost believe he's on fire, and his clothing feels restrictive and hot. Lucius rips at the neck of his shirt with his teeth, keeping the wand steady at his neck even as he's dipping his hand around to tease those cool fingers at Charlie's entrance, making him groan and squeeze Lucius through the material. He should be ashamed, he thinks, _ashamed_, and he wonders what he's going to tell everyone at Tregoyd about his torn clothes, what he's going to tell Bill about the bite marks on his pale skin. But then Lucius speeds up, and he's sending waves of something - Charlie isn't even so sure if it's magic, any more - through the wand into the vulnerable curve of Charlie's neck, and Charlie bites down on his bloody lower lip to stop himself from screaming.  
  
It's over almost as quickly and unexpectedly as it began. Charlie shudders as he comes, suddenly acutely aware of the miles upon miles of infinite dark around them, the deep slumber of the dragon beside them. It almost hurts, and he clutches at Lucius's back, closing his eyes.  
  
When he opens them, Lucius is as cool and silent as the bars of the cage, and he takes the wand away.  
  
I meet trespassers on _my_ terms, Mr Weasley, he says quietly, and stands up. You would do well to remember that.  
  
Charlie tries to catch his breath, but coughs instead - coughs that wrack his body and make him bend forwards, into the earth. The side of his neck feels numb from the wand, still, and he finds that he can hardly turn his head. Guilty remembered pleasure still coursing through him.  
  
Lucius turns to go. The sky is getting lighter, now, and the pale blue creeping in at the edges of the horizon allows Charlie to see more clearly. The dragon _is_ an Ironbelly, chained so tight he can hardly move. There are welts in the dragon's flank, where the iron bands have bitten through the scales and into the flesh. And ashes everywhere, and the faintest suggestion of a darker patch at the front of Lucius's trousers.  
  
I trust your report will be favourable, he says over his shoulder, and Charlie thinks he can hear a hint of amusement in his voice.


End file.
